我想要白日夢想家的劇本或原創小說？

我想要白日夢想家的劇本或原創小說！ 想知道是這樣劇本或小說能寫出這樣的電影！

《The Secret Life of Walter Mitty》（1939）

by James Thurber

"WE"RE going through!" The Commander"s voice was like thin ice
breaking. He wore his full-dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap
pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. "We can"t make it, sir. It"s
spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me." "I"m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,"
said the Commander. "Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8500! We"re going
through!" The pounding of the cylinders increased:
ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the ice
forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated
dials. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!" he shouted. "Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!"
repeated Lieutenant Berg. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" shouted the
Commander. "Full strength in No. 3 turret!" The crew, bending to their various
tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other
and grinned. "The Old Man"ll get us through," they said to one another. "The Old
Man ain"t afraid of hell!" . . .

"Not so fast! You"re driving too fast!"
said Mrs. Mitty. "What are you driving so fast for?"

"Hmm?" said Walter
Mitty. He looked at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment.
She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a
crowd. "You were up to fifty-five," she said. "You know I don"t like to go more
than forty. You were up to fifty-five." Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury
in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst storm in twenty years of
Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his mind. "You"re tensed
up again," said Mrs. Mitty. "It"s one of your days. I wish you"d let Dr. Renshaw
look you over."

Walter Mitty stopped the car in front of the building
where his wife went to have her hair done. "Remember to get those overshoes
while I"m having my hair done," she said. "I don"t need overshoes," said Mitty.
She put her mirror back into her bag. "We"ve been all through that," she said,
getting out of the car. "You"re not a young man any longer." He raced the engine
a little. "Why don"t you wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?" Walter
Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, but after
she had turned and gone into the building and he had driven on to a red light,
he took them off again. "Pick it up, brother!" snapped a cop as the light
changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove
around the streets aimlessly for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on
his way to the parking lot.

. . . "It"s the millionaire banker,
Wellington McMillan," said the pretty nurse. "Yes?" said Walter Mitty, removing
his gloves slowly. "Who has the case?" "Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, but there
are two specialists here, Dr. Remington from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford
from London. He flew over." A door opened down a long, cool corridor and Dr.
Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. "Hello, Mitty," he said.
`"We"re having the devil"s own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and
close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary.
Wish you"d take a look at him." "Glad to," said Mitty.

In the operating
room there were whispered introductions: "Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr.
Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty." "I"ve read your book on streptothricosis," said
Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. "A brilliant performance, sir." "Thank you,"
said Walter Mitty. "Didn"t know you were in the States, Mitty," grumbled
Remington. "Coals to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me up here for a tertiary."
"You are very kind," said Mitty. A huge, complicated machine, connected to the
operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go
pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. "The new anesthetizer is giving away!" shouted an
intern. "There is no one in the East who knows how to fix it!" "Quiet, man!"
said Mitty, in a low, cool voice. He sprang to the machine, which was now going
pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep . He began fingering delicately a row of
glistening dials. "Give me a fountain pen!" he snapped. Someone handed him a
fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the machine and inserted the pen
in its place. "That will hold for ten minutes," he said. "Get on with the
operation. A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man
turn pale. "Coreopsis has set in," said Renshaw nervously. "If you would take
over, Mitty?" Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank,
and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists. "If you wish,"
he said. They slipped a white gown on him, he adjusted a mask and drew on thin
gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .

"Back it up, Mac!! Look out for
that Buick!" Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. "Wrong lane, Mac," said the
parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. "Gee. Yeh," muttered Mitty. He
began cautiously to back out of the lane marked "Exit Only." "Leave her sit
there," said the attendant. "I"ll put her away." Mitty got out of the car. "Hey,
better leave the key." "Oh," said Mitty, handing the man the ignition key. The
attendant vaulted into the car, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it
where it belonged.

They"re so damn cocky, thought Walter Mitty, walking
along Main Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take
his chains off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound around the axles.
A man had had to come out in a wrecking car and unwind them, a young, grinning
garageman. Since then Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to a garage to have the
chains taken off. The next time, he thought, I"ll wear my right arm in a sling;
they won"t grin at me then. I"ll have my right arm in a sling and they"ll see I
couldn"t possibly take the chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the
sidewalk. "Overshoes," he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe
store.

When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a
box under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other thing was his
wife had told him to get. She had told him, twice before they set out from their
house for Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to town--he was always
getting something wrong. Kleenex, he thought, Squibb"s, razor blades? No. Tooth
paste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, Carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave
it up. But she would remember it. "Where"s the what"s-its- name?" she would ask.
"Don"t tell me you forgot the what"s-its-name." A newsboy went by shouting
something about the Waterbury trial.

. . . "Perhaps this will refresh
your memory." The District Attorney suddenly thrust a heavy automatic at the
quiet figure on the witness stand. "Have you ever seen this before?"" Walter
Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. "This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80,"
he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Judge rapped for
order. "You are a crack shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?" said the
District Attorney, insinuatingly. "Objection!" shouted Mitty"s attorney. "We
have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We have shown that
he wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the fourteenth of July." Walter
Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled. "With
any known make of gun," he said evenly, "I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst
at three hundred feet with my left hand." Pandemonium broke loose in the
courtroom. A woman"s scream rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely,
dark-haired girl was in Walter Mitty"s arms. The District Attorney struck at her
savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty let the man have it on the point
of the chin. "You miserable cur!" . . .

"Puppy biscuit," said Walter
Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of the
misty courtroom and surrounded him again. A woman who was passing laughed. "He
said "Puppy biscuit,"" she said to her companion. "That man said "Puppy biscuit"
to himself." Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. P., not the first
one he came to but a smaller one farther up the street. "I want some biscuit for
small, young dogs," he said to the clerk. "Any special brand, sir?" The greatest
pistol shot in the world thought a moment. "It says "Puppies Bark for It" on the
box," said Walter Mitty.

His wife would be through at the hairdresser"s
in fifteen minutes" Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had trouble
drying it; sometimes they had trouble drying it. She didn"t like to get to the
hotel first, she would want him to be there waiting for her as usual. He found a
big leather chair in the lobby, facing a window, and he put the overshoes and
the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an old copy of Liberty
and sank down into the chair. "Can Germany Conquer the World Through the Air?"
Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes and of ruined streets.

. . . "The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir," said
the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through tousled hair. "Get him to
bed," he said wearily, "with the others. I"ll fly alone." "But you can"t, sir,"
said the sergeant anxiously. "It takes two men to handle that bomber and the
Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman"s circus is between here
and Saulier." "Somebody"s got to get that ammunition dump," said Mitty. "I"m
going over. Spot of brandy?" He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for
himself. War thundered and whined around the dugout and battered at the door.
There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. "A bit of a
near thing," said Captain Mitty carelessly. "The box barrage is closing in,"
said the sergeant. "We only live once, Sergeant," said Mitty, with his faint,
fleeting smile. "Or do we?" He poured another brandy and tossed it off. "I never
see a man could hold his brandy like you, sir," said the sergeant. "Begging your
pardon, sir." Captain Mitty stood up and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers
automatic. "It"s forty kilometers through hell, sir," said the sergeant. Mitty
finished one last brandy. "After all," he said softly, "what isn"t?" The
pounding of the cannon increased; there was the rat-tat-tatting of machine guns,
and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new
flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming "Aupres de
Ma Blonde." He turned and waved to the sergeant. "Cheerio!" he said. . . .

Something struck his shoulder. "I"ve been looking all over this hotel
for you," said Mrs. Mitty. "Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did
you expect me to find you?" "Things close in," said Walter Mitty vaguely.
"What?" Mrs. Mitty said. "Did you get the what"s-its-name? The puppy biscuit?
What"s in that box?" "Overshoes," said Mitty. "Couldn"t you have put them on in
the store?" "I was thinking," said Walter Mitty. "Does it ever occur to you that
I am sometimes thinking?" She looked at him. "I"m going to take your temperature
when I get you home," she said.

They went out through the revolving
doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was
two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, "Wait
here for me. I forgot something. I won"t be a minute." She was more than a
minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in
it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . . He put his
shoulders back and his heels together. "To hell with the handkerchief," said
Waker Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it
away. Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the
firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the
Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

……算了看在復活節快到的份上，我就做一次人肉搜索引擎吧……

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty 是 James Thurber 在1939年發表的短篇，是美國最常被選編的小說之一，在1947和2013都被改編成同名電影，兩部電影都和原著差別很大。
附上原著鏈接和2013年版的好了……

James Thurber: 「The Secret Life of Walter Mitty」 : The New Yorker

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: The Abridged Script